


A Wound to the Heart

by SMQueen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Pain, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:26:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SMQueen/pseuds/SMQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Leave John out of this,” Sherlock growled. “This is not about John.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I think it is very much about John.” Moriarty smirked, stepping away from John and staring down at him. “I want to hurt you, Sherlock….”</p>
<p>“Then do it. Hurt me,” Sherlock said, a little too quickly.</p>
<p>“I believe I have found,” Moriarty paused, reaching down to slap John roughly across the face. The hit echoed throughout the large room. Sherlock closed his eyes. Tried to collect his thoughts. John gritted his teeth. “That hurting John is hurting you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John woke uncomfortably, with his hands bound behind his back and a throbbing pain in his head. He blinked stars of light out of his vision and groaned as he pulled himself to a sitting position on the cold concrete floor that he’d presumably been dumped on. His memories were hazy. He could remember a long day at work, coming back to the flat, going for Chinese with Sherlock…

Sherlock.

John was suddenly wide-awake and turning in every direction, scanning the large warehouse-like room for his flat mate. He wasn’t sure if he felt relief or dread settle low in his stomach when his eyes fixed on a figure, dark haired and tall, sprawled a few feet behind him.

John ignored the pain in his head and his still swimming vision, and scooted along the floor to sit beside Sherlock. He nudged him gently with his elbow. “Sherlock,” he said, his voice low. “Hey, Sherlock. Come on now…”

The detective beneath him began to stir. His hands were tied behind his back as well and his struggle to sit up made John wish that he could simply reach down and pull him up. John could see his eyes clear as he became aware of his surroundings. The confusion was gone, and replaced by a look of annoyance.

More emotions flooded Sherlock’s face for a split second as his eyes connected with John’s and he realized that he wasn’t alone. “All right?” John asked, leaning forward slightly.

Sherlock gave a low groan and shook his head. “Fine,” he said shortly. “Does your head…”

“Feel as though it’s been stomped on?” John offered. “Yes, definitely.”

Sherlock nodded to himself. “Knocked out and drugged then.”

“You’re not even on a case. Who would want us?”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow in an act that had no right to look so elegant in such a grim situation.

“No,” John breathed.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock confirmed. “That would be my guess.”

“Your guesses are usually correct.”

“They are.”

“Fuck,” John muttered before he could help himself.

“Fuck, indeed,” Sherlock agreed, the word sounding out of place in his smooth voice.

When John started to speak again he was interrupted by the loud opening of a door at the far end of the room. As he had feared, Moriarty approached them, clad in a dark grey suit and expensive shoes that clicked as he walked across the floor.

“Welcome, welcome!” he said. A grin spread over his face and he fixed his gaze on Sherlock. “It’s ever so good to see you.”

“I can’t say the same,” Sherlock growled. 

“What do you want, Moriarty?” John asked, his voice flat and dry.

Moriarty turned to John and his expression visibly darkened. “Don’t you speak,” he said, pointing a finger at John. “You’re not here to speak. You’re not worthy of speaking.” Moriarty’s words were so filled with hatred that John held his tongue and settled for a sharp glare in response.

“What do you want?” Sherlock said, sparing a quick glance at John. “I assume you have plans.”

“You’ve assumed correctly,” Moriarty said, clasping his hands in front of his chest. “I’ve been bored lately, you see. Bored with this silly game that we’re playing. So I thought, hey!” His voice echoed throughout the room. “Let’s take it up a notch.”

Moriarty’s look of untapped glee caused fear to settle low in John’s stomach. He pulled desperately at the ropes that held his hands behind his back, but they didn’t loosen. A quick look showed that Sherlock was also tugging at his own ties.

Moriarty caught John’s look and followed it to Sherlock. Upon seeing Sherlock pulling his hands slightly apart Moriarty gave Sherlock’s hands a sharp kick. “Now, now, Sherlock,” he said as Sherlock fell over, unable to brace himself. He sat slowly back up, his face devoid of emotion or pain.

“Lestrade will come for us,” Sherlock said, his face stoic, as though he wasn’t worried in the slightest.

“Will he? You weren’t on a case. He doesn’t know where you are. Goodness, he doesn’t even know that you’re missing.”

“Mrs. Hudson will notice and call,” Sherlock pressed on.

“Ah, I doubt that.” Moriarty’s grin turned downwards. “You two are on a date, remember?”

John furrowed his brow in confusion, but Sherlock didn’t react.

“Sherlock, you took your little pet out for dinner. For a date. There’s nothing odd about that. No one will question it. We’ve got all night before anyone thinks anything of it.” Moriarty’s smile was back now, and wider than ever.

“Not his date,” John grumbled largely out of habit.

Moriarty snarled and kicked John roughly in the softness of his abdomen. He exhaled sharply but held his yell in.

“I told you to shut up!” Moriarty said, his voice rising to a shout.

Sherlock flinched and started to shift towards Moriarty but he stopped when the man turned to him. With his hands tied firmly behind his back he had no defenses anyway.

“Interesting,” Moriarty said, looking at John and then to Sherlock. He kicked John again, more softly this time, but still hard enough for John to double over. Again Sherlock couldn’t help but flinch. It was slight, barely noticeable at all, but of course Moriarty saw it.

“Leave John out of this,” Sherlock growled. “This is not about John.”

“Oh, I think it is very much about John.” Moriarty smirked, stepping away from John and staring down at him. “I want to hurt you, Sherlock….”

“Then do it. Hurt me,” Sherlock said, a little too quickly.

“I believe I have found,” Moriarty paused, reaching down to slap John roughly across the face. The hit echoed throughout the large room. Sherlock closed his eyes. Tried to collect his thoughts. John gritted his teeth. “That hurting John is hurting you.” 

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock said, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

“Am I?” Moriarty asked, arching his eyebrow.

“I feel nothing for John Watson. He is convenient; that’s all.”

“I don’t quite believe you.”

“I feel nothing,” Sherlock said coldly. “Like you.”

John tried to ignore the chill that he felt at Sherlock’s words. This was an act. Just an act, surely. Because he knew Sherlock. He knew that he was nothing like Moriarty. His mind stopped having time to wander when Moriarty took a step closer to his spot on the ground.

“If you don’t care about John Watson, then you won’t care if I do this…” There was a short pause of silence and suddenly Moriarty was kicking John with such force that he couldn’t draw a breath. Each kick grew more forceful than the last. John fell backwards onto the ground and curled into himself, but he couldn’t completely shield his stomach from the blows. He felt something, a rib, crack deep in his chest. He could hear yelling from somewhere in the distance. Maybe it was Sherlock. Or Moriarty. Maybe he was hearing his own cries of pain. It was impossible to know. The pain was dull now, far away. He could feel the pressure of the kicks, but the pain was fading. Bit not good. His vision was growing blurry and muted when the attack finally stopped. He rolled onto his back and tried to draw steady breaths. As he returned gradually to full consciousness, the pain returned as well and everything was bruised and throbbing.

“Stop it. Stop this. It’s not about John. This doesn’t concern John. This is between you and I. Kick me. It’s about me. His death will only inconvenience you. It wouldn’t…” 

“Quiet!” Moriarty roared, cutting off Sherlock’s desperate ramblings. “As I’ve said, I have reason to believe that you do care about the wellbeing of your pet.”

“Do anything you want to me, Moriarty,” Sherlock said. “Whatever you…”

John’s breathing was ragged but he forced words from his lips. “Sherlock,” he interrupted, weakly. “Quiet.”

“John,” Sherlock’s eyes connected with John’s and he fell silent.

“Touching,” Moriarty said, stepping between them and breaking their eye contact. “This is adorable, really. You know, I think we’re really going to have a nice time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one today, but I'm setting up for some real fun in the next chapter. And by fun I mean torture. Cool.
> 
> RECAP: “Touching,” Moriarty said, stepping between them and breaking their eye contact. “This is adorable, really. You know, I think we’re really going to have a nice time.”

“But for now,” Moriarty said, his face falling dramatically. “I have a bit of business to attend to. I’m so busy. Oh, boys, you know how it goes. Is that all right, Sherlock? Do you mind a bit of waiting?”

Sherlock’s face remained stoic. He didn’t react at all.

It seemed Moriarty didn’t enjoy being ignored and he aimed another sharp kick at John, who still hadn’t found the strength to rise from his position on the ground. John was unable to hold in a low moan as Moriarty connected with the broken ribs deep in his chest and he cried out and braced himself for another blow. Moriarty braced for another kick but Sherlock's words interrupted him.

“Attend to your business, Moriarty,” Sherlock said dryly, realizing the mistake he’d made before in ignoring the man.

“Thank you,” Moriarty said with a low bow. “Look, I’ll even untie you so you can tend to Johnny here,” he said, motioning at John’s crumpled figure. “I’m not a complete monster,” he said in a singsong voice as he knelt behind Sherlock and cut his hands loose. 

As soon as he was free Sherlock whirled around, ready to attack, but Moriarty was waiting with a gun pressed to John’s forehead. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Sherlock lowered his hands and breathed a defeated sigh.

“Good boy,” Moriarty said, lowering the gun. John must have passed out. His eyes were closed and he didn’t react to the interaction at all. His condition didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said, struggling to keep his voice civil and steady. “At least… Can you... bring water? Please.” The words pained him but he pushed on. For John.

“Wow,” Moriarty’s eyes widened. “I’m impressed. That was damn near polite. Must’ve been tough for you.” He paused and considered Sherlock’s request. “But politeness really doesn’t do anything for me.” He turned on his heel, and started for the door. 

“And Sherlock, don’t try to escape,” he said darkly just before he left the room. “I can promise it wouldn't be worth the effort.” As Moriarty spoke the telling red lights of sniper rifles appeared all over Sherlock and John’s bodies. Though Sherlock couldn’t see any shooters in the building, the beams of red light proved their existence.

And with that Moriarty was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. 

As soon as Moriarty was out of the room Sherlock rushed to John’s side. First he untied the rope that bound his hands. Then he gingerly pulled the doctor’s shirt up and ran his hand along John’s chest. Multiple broken ribs. Possible internal bleeding. No. Worse than that. Probable internal bleeding. He needed a doctor. 

A trickle of blood ran down John’s face from a cut on his forehead. Sherlock pressed his thumb to the cut and wiped the blood away. Good chance of a concussion as well. John needed to stay awake.

“John, wake up,” Sherlock said, his voice stern. “You need to wake up.” He shook the doctor’s shoulder gently and John cracked open his eyes.

“Sherlock, hey,” he said. And John, miraculous creature that he was, smiled, in spite of everything that had happened. He shifted a bit and his eyes closed immediately due to the pain that the simple movement caused. He started to sit up but Sherlock pressed a hand to his chest.

"Don't move," he said.

“Ah,” John hissed. “Yeah, yes, fine.” He raised just his head slowly and clutched at his side, but he didn’t waver. “I guess it would be too optimistic to hope that Moriarty isn’t here because we’ve been saved,” John said, looking around the warehouse.

“Far too optimistic. He’s only stepped out. Said he had business.”

“So he isn’t here? Good time to escape, right?” John struggled to gain his footing and get to his feet. “Come on then. Help me up. Let’s find a way out of here.”

"John, sit down. You're going to make your injuries worse." John groaned but slid back to a sitting position. Lying down probably would have been better, but Sherlock supposed he would have to settle for this.

“Too optimistic again, John,” Sherlock said quickly. “I’ve located every possible exit. The window, high one, there,” He pointed up at a large window, far too far from the ground to reach. “The door, back there, just out of sight. And the door Moriarty entered through. Obviously.”

“But?” John pressed, sensing there was more to Sherlock’s observations.

“But none of these are viable options. The door Moriarty came through is locked. Locked it as he went. The window is impossible to reach. Also welded shut. Owners of the building wanted to keep out imposing teenagers. And the homeless. It’s impossible to open without supplies.”

“And the door? The door we can’t even see? Honestly, how could you even know there was another door?”

“Safety protocol. This warehouse was in use, quite recently. Paper mill, I believe. There must be a second exit.” Sherlock stood and brushed himself off. “But it doesn’t matter either way.” As soon as Sherlock took a step toward the back door, a red light appeared on his forehead.

“Oh,” John said quietly, the realization dawning on him. “There it is then… So what do we do?”

Sherlock knelt back by John’s side. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands tightly together. He was silent for a moment before opening his eyes. “We wait for Moriarty to return.”

John ran a hand over his abdomen, where deep purple bruises were already appearing. “Sherlock, I don’t,” he paused, faltering from the pain when he pressed down on his stomach. “I don’t know if that’s a great idea for me. You know… medically.”

Sherlock cast his gaze on the bruises. “Internal bleeding,” he stated.

“Looks that way.”

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said, running a hand through his hair quickly.

“I’m not worried.”

“Good.”

“Good. Are you all right?”

Sherlock paused at that. “You’ve just been beaten to the point of bleeding internally.”

“Yes, and how are you?” John said.

Sherlock breathed a huff of laughter. “Fine.”

“Good. All right then.”

Sherlock could sense a coldness in the air. Of course. His words had hurt John. “John, what I said to him. About not caring. About you. About… being like him. I… well, you know, I…”

“You’re not like him, Sherlock,” John interrupted. “Not at all. I know that.”

“Those things, John. I had to say them.”

John gave a small nod. “I know.”

“I didn’t…” Sherlock paused and looked at the ground. “I am going to get you out of here.”

“My hero,” John tried to laugh but ended up clutching his side and doubling over in pain. “Sooner rather than later, please,” he said when he able to speak again. “I could really go for a cuppa.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am terribly sorry about the wait. I hope you like this. I really felt it.

John and Sherlock sat together on the ground and waited in silence for twenty minutes before they heard footsteps outside the far door.

“Don’t say anything,” Sherlock said in John’s ear. John nodded. He couldn’t risk being hurt again. He already desperately needed medical attention. His condition remained about the same, but every move brought a harsh pain in his side and a grimace to his face.

The man that entered the warehouse was not Moriarty. He had short dirty blond hair that was cut in a way only a military man would wear. His face was rough, worn. Lines etched his forehead and a deep crease was present between his dark, nearly black eyes. He walked with a very slight limp.

“Sebastian Moran,” he said, with a slight grin. “Pleased to meet you. You must be John,” he looked down at the doctor. “And Sherlock.” His voice was proper. His words carefully shaped.

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock said, his eyes narrow. He looked Moran up and down. “Highly educated. Oxford, perhaps? Studied something dull. Average. But that bored you. You’re a military man at heart. Sniper. Incredibly skilled. You like it. Causing pain. It gives you pleasure. Always has. You’re particularly skilled because you love the look on your victim’s face while you hurt them.”

Moran smirked.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. Brutish skill is worth _far_ less than intelligence. Especially when it’s so easily blinded by sentiment. And your own intelligence has been very blinded, hasn’t it? You could be highly successful, yet you’re here, in this dirty building, watching over worthless captives. For Moriarty. You fancy yourself in love with him, don’t you?”

Moran flinched, just slightly, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, then. You do. A pity He can’t love you back. He isn’t capable of it. You should cut your losses while you can.”

“Let you go, I suppose?” Moran said, his voice a mocking sound. “That’s what I should do?”

“That would be your most logical decision.”

“Well fuck logic,” Moran growled. “And fuck you.” He took a step closer to Sherlock and simultaneously pulled a knife from his belt loop. “Jim said you would try this. He also said what I should do if you wouldn’t be quiet.”

“Sherlock,” John warned, his voice low.

“All right,” Sherlock said, raising his hands by his side and stepping away from Moran.

“Sit down,” Moran said, holding the long knife toward Sherlock. Sherlock knelt to the ground and took a seat beside John.

“Why are you here, Moran?” Sherlock said, his voice a deep growl.

“I’m here to do Jim a favor,” Moran said, examining the blade of his knife and running his thumb over it slowly. “I’m here to find out what makes you tick. Extract the necessary information.” He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word until there was only eerie silence in the building.

Moran walked with slow steps toward John and squatted to face him directly. He held the knife between John’s eyes. Sherlock tensed but said nothing.

“I’m to find out why,” Moran moved the knife down to the front of John’s shirt and slowly began cutting it in two. “Why you love John,” Moran finished, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock.

Sherlock had his hands clenched at his side. “Don’t,” he warned.

Moran used the tip of the knife to pull John’s tattered shirt off his body. The deep bruises on his chest looked darker. He trembled slightly, though due to pain or fear Sherlock wasn’t sure.

“I don’t recommend trying to stop me, Sherlock. I know you’re thinking about it. I know you would love to rip me apart. But you can’t. If you move, John will be dead before you’ve gotten one hit in.” As if to emphasize his point Moran drew a thin line across John’s neck. Small drops of blood appeared where he traced and John closed his eyes and bit his lower lip to keep from reacting.

Sherlock drew a shuddering breath that was louder than he intended.

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” John said softly, catching Sherlock’s gaze. He gave a small nod and Sherlock tried to return it, but he couldn’t seem to make himself move.

Moran looked back and forth in disbelief. “Blimey,” he muttered.

Sherlock turned his glare back to Moran.

“See,” Moran explained. “I thought Jim was wrong about you two. Well, Sherlock, I’ve been watching you. For a while. I didn’t think you had the capacity for this.”

“For what?” Sherlock asked darkly.

“Love,” Moran said, with another smirk. 

Sherlock started to shake his head and protest. It was his natural reaction. But John was bleeding in front of him and damn it, that hurt more than any pain Sherlock had ever felt, so he just didn’t bother denying anything.

“But what makes him so different?” Moran turned back to John and raised the knife to his chest. John glared up at Moran. “Sherlock Holmes doesn’t love. Love is a waste of time, isn’t it? You only love yourself, Sherlock. And John here. So he must be different. Will you tell me Sherlock? Will you tell me why he’s different?”

Moran paused and glanced at Sherlock. The detective said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. “Fine,” Moran said. And in one quick motion he was drawing the knife down John’s chest, deep enough for deep lines of blood to well up on his skin. John cried out and arched his back, but Moran didn’t stop. He pulled the knife down John’s chest until he’d reached his lower stomach. Then he pulled the knife back up John’s chest, creating a great oval of blood and never once breaking contact.

“Enough!” Sherlock shouted, his voice echoing throughout the building.

Moran paused, but kept the knife on the edge of John’s skin. “What. Makes. Him. Different?” Moran asked, pressing shallow wounds into John’s stomach as he spoke.

“Everything!” Sherlock roared, his voice echoing through the room. “ _Everything_ makes him different!” 

Moran paused, lifted the knife from John’s bloodied chest, and turned to Sherlock. “Go on.”

“He’s…” Sherlock drew a ragged breath and glanced at John. “He’s not boring. Despite his general appearance of normalcy, he’s fascinating. Miraculously so. He’s… a hundred subtle contradictions. Invisible to most people, but not to me. He’s like… like a puzzle waiting to be solved but as soon as you think you’ve found the final piece he shoots a hole through the center.” Sherlock paused, unsure of how to continue. He avoided looking into John's eyes, which he knew had to be glued to him by now.

Moran started to press the knife to John again, so Sherlock spoke again. His voice was stronger now. It had lost much of its quiver. He knew what he had to do. He had to tell the truth.

“I don't understand him at all, but somehow, inexplicably, he's still the only person in the world that I do understand. He has a psychosomatic limp that only goes away when he puts himself in danger, but he fusses at me for not letting him have a night in to watch ridiculous sci-fi telly. It’s completely irrational. It makes no sense. He’s an experiment with results that make no logical sense. Believe me; I've studied the data relentlessly. He’s kind, too kind, but he shot a man on the first night I met him. For me. He didn’t even know me. Probably thought I was mad. _Should_ have thought I was mad. But he killed for me, and he did it effortlessly.” 

“Yes?” Moran said, still looking expectantly at Sherlock.

“He compliments my deductions. He isn’t repulsed by my intellect. He’s impressed. He’s patient. He understands people, their emotions. Everyone he meets is charmed by him. Understandably. But they don't see all of him. They see the surface. The jumpers and warm eyes. And there is so much more. John is… well; he’s everything that I’m not. Bit dim sometimes, yes, but almost everyone is. And he is smarter than most. But I…” Sherlock stopped and drew a long breath. “I do quite like having him around. I’ve come to the tested conclusion that I _am_ better with John Watson in my life. And I think he might be better with me in his. _That_ is why he’s different, Sebastian.”

“Jesus,” Moran said, slipping the knife back through his belt loop. “That should certainly suffice.”

Sherlock ran a hand roughly through his hair. “Got everything you need then?” he said.

“I do indeed.” Moran smiled and pulled a small pack of gauze from his back pocket. He tossed the package beside Sherlock and stood up. “Sorry about the cuts, Johnny. Just following orders. You understand, I’m sure?” 

He started for the door.

"He really can't love you, you know," Sherlock called after him. "I'm sorry, Moran. He can't. He is using you."

Moran paused for a moment, but never turned around. He left the room without a word, leaving John, bleeding and shocked by Sherlock’s words, and Sherlock, still shaking with rage and fearing the impact his words, his truths, would have on John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to know what you think about this. And if you're so inclined, you can find me on Twitter @SkyyTweet. I would love to be friends with all of you.


	4. Chapter 4

Once Moran was gone, the silence was deafening. For a moment no one moved, no one breathed, and then Sherlock was up, grabbing the pack of gauze and doing his best to stop John’s bleeding. He avoided the doctor’s eyes and focused only on his wounds.

“Not terrible,” he said, his voice cold and clinical. “Surface wounds. They aren’t your problem.”

“Sherlock.”

“And your internal bleeding looks better. Do you feel better? I think that you will…”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was louder now. “Stop.” He sounded like the soldier he had once been, and Sherlock found himself stopping and pulling his hands away from John’s chest.

“Sherlock, what was that?”

Sherlock kept his eyes down. “I was tending to your injuries.”

John closed his eyes and shook his head. “I am not as smart as you, but you know that even I’m not that dim. Sherlock, the things you said…”

“That was nothing, John. I was saving you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“That was nothing?”

“I told Moran what he wanted to hear.”

“And that’s all it was?”

“Of course. What else would it be? I was playing the game, John.”

John’s eyes stayed locked on Sherlock. His stare was hard, piercing.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Reluctantly the detective raised his eyes to meet John’s.

“I don’t believe you,” John said slowly, putting effort into every word.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but he knew there was no point. John saw through him. Of course he did. John was always the one who was going to.

“I’m sorry,” he said, even though he didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for.

John’s expression softened. The lines on his forehead disappeared. “Sherlock,” he said, his eyes wide. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I have everything to be sorry for,” Sherlock said, his voice a low growl. “You’re here, aren’t you? On this cold ground, _dying_? God, no. Not dying. Well, yes. Gone too far now. Wasn’t going to tell you that. I was going to lie. But you’re a doctor, of course. Of course you know. You aren’t a complete idiot. Sometimes I forget. Sorry. That was. You know. Bugger it. And even if you do live. If by some miracle we both live, it doesn’t matter. I’ve gone and ruined everything anyway, so there’s really not much point anymore.”

John’s mouth had fallen open. He closed it and swallowed hard. “You haven’t ruined everything, Sherlock. You really haven’t ruined anything at all. You said it yourself; I _am_ better with you in my life. That’s true, I suppose. I’m not going anywhere. I mean, unless I die, which at this rate, is fairly likely.” John’s voice was light, joking even. But Sherlock could see through his facade; he was, understandably, worried.

“You’re not going to die,” Sherlock said, his eyes still fixed on John.

“It doesn’t work when you tell me it’s a lie,” John said, letting his head fall back to the ground. Lifting his head to face Sherlock had tired him.

“But that is what people do, isn’t it? To comfort each other? They soften the truth. Break it down. Make it manageable.”

“Yes, I guess they do.”

“Then you’re going to be fine. We both are.”

“Good.”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock, what are we going to do? Really. How are we going to get out of this?”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know. Hold out hope for Lestrade. He’s not brilliant, obviously, but he’s decent. Fairly competent. We have some chance of him realizing that something’s off. Logically, we have a very slim chance of escaping this. I can think of no immediate options.”

“So you _really_ don’t think we’ll make it out of here?”

Sherlock glanced at John. He read his expression. He wanted the truth. Needed it. “No, John,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “I really don’t think we will.”

John took a deep breath. “In that case…” 

Before Sherlock could respond, John was pulling himself up, wincing a bit at the movement, and scooting closer to him on the ground. 

“John, you need to,” Sherlock started to protest, but John’s lips were on his before he could finish a sentence. Despite the desperate circumstances, the kiss was not at all desperate. John kissed like he did most everything else. Completely and fully, with kindness and dedication. He wrapped a hand through Sherlock’s hair and pulled him closer, opening his mouth and inviting Sherlock to explore him.

And explore he did. 

They moved together, slow and sweet and savoring every taste. Sherlock had never been kissed like this. In the past it had always been a fight. A competition. A battle of power. But this. This was so different. So wonderfully different. This was no battle. This was a dance. A masterpiece. This was an orchestra, where every movement was in perfect rhythm. They were creating beautiful music, Sherlock thought, somewhere far in the back of his mind.

But all too quickly it was over, and John was gasping for air and holding his side. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders instinctively and helped him back to his position on the floor.

“Are you all right?” he asked, running his hands lightly over John’s bandaged, bruised chest. “John…”

“I’m fine,” John said with a short huff of laughter. He still hadn’t completely regained his breath. “You bloody madman. I’m fine.” He reached up and pulled Sherlock down to meet his lips again. This kiss was short, just a lingering afterthought.

“John,” Sherlock said once he’d been released. “What…”

“We’re dying; Sherlock, you’ve just been forced to confess your reasons for… for loving me to a torturer who’s in love with Jim Moriarty. That’s… well, just ridiculous, really. Honestly, some strange things have happened to us, but this has got to be the strangest. I’m not going to allow the two of us to do what we normally do. We are not dancing around this. I am dying. Slowly, yes. But dying nonetheless. Moriarty is probably going to kill us both anyway, in the very near future. And I don’t want to think about any of that. So you’ll do well to bloody _keep_ kissing me.”

“You’re not…”

“Gay? No, I wouldn’t say so. But you’re different too, aren’t you Sherlock? You always have been.”

“Have I?”

“Do you want a speech like you gave? Because I’m afraid I’m not that eloquent. If it’s all the same to you, I would just like to kiss you until I forget where I am.”

The idea sounded pretty great to Sherlock. But he couldn’t quiet the logic that was demanding to be voiced. “You can’t sit up, John. It could worsen your condition. The internal injuries.”

“Then use that brain you’re so known for,” John said with a weary grin. “And come down here.”

Sherlock hesitated. John was being.... not like John. “I fear you’re not making reasonable decisions. Perhaps your condition has clouded your judgment. The blood loss, perhaps.” 

John sighed and tried to lift his head up, but he proved too weak. “I wish I could just sit up. This is infuriating.”

“John, you mustn’t. You could…”

“Yes, yes. I know, Sherlock. I’m just tired of staring straight up at this wretched ceiling.”

Sherlock shifted beside him. John glanced over at his legs. 

“All right. Budge over,” he said, lifting his head a bit. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked.

“Come on. I know it’s strange but humor me. Dying, remember? Come here.”

“You really must stop saying that.” But Sherlock did as he was asked and scooted toward John until he was able to settle his head on Sherlock’s lap. 

“Ah,” John sighed, letting his head drop fully on Sherlock’s legs. “That’s so much better. I was getting a headache.”

Sherlock was frozen. His hands were on the ground at his sides. 

“Sherlock, my god. Relax a bit.”

“John, we can’t... kiss. You can’t. You need to conserve your energy.”

“Yes,” John said, closing his eyes. “Yes, I know.” He sounded sad. Unbearably sad.

“All right,” Sherlock said.

“All right.”

Sherlock brought his hand to John’s hair and ran it through slowly. He examined the way John’s hair didn’t stay one color. It was golden and light and then suddenly grey. All mixed seamlessly. He continued to investigate John’s hair; he tried to determine exactly where the blond ended and the grey began. He counted the colors, the different shades he could see.

“Don’t go to sleep,” Sherlock said. John’s eyes were still closed, but his breathing was steady. Awake.

“I’m not.”

Sherlock continued to cradle John in his lap, to run his hands through his hair. It was the most intimate thing he had ever done.

“That speech, Sherlock,” John said after a moment. “That was. Well. Rather _lovely_.”

“I’ve been analyzing you for years, John.”

“Got me all figured out?”

“Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know what you think! And follow me on Twitter @SkyyTweet if you'd like to be friends. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Sorry about the wait. As usual. But I really like this chapter! Also it's my birthday, so you're not allowed to be mad at me. I think that's how birthdays work. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think! :)

“Hey. Up,” Sherlock said, shifting his knee to nudge John awake.

“I am up,” John mumbled, but his eyes were bleary. “How much longer are we going to be here? Getting a bit bored.” He paused to cough. And wince. “Can’t believe you haven’t gone crazy by now.”

“Hm,” Sherlock said, still absentmindedly raking his fingers through John’s hair. “I’m fine, actually.”

“Lestrade’s bound to be on his way to rescue us by now. Don’t you think?” John said, his eyes full of hope as he looked up at Sherlock. His optimism, it seemed, was not completely gone.

Sherlock paused. “Ah. Yes. Surely.”

“Liar.”

“Well. Did you want my honest opinion?”

“No. But you’re only lying because I’m on my way out. You never lie.” Despite talking about his own death, John wore a slight smile.

Sherlock frowned. “I thought I told you to stop saying that.”

“What? That I’m dying.”

Wrinkles formed on Sherlock’s forehead and he pulled his hand from John’s hair.

“Does it really bother you? Me mentioning it?” John said, noting Sherlock’s reaction. “My god. It does, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock tensed and avoided John’s eyes.

“Sherlock,” John said, sadly. "I'm just..."

“Of course it bothers me, John,” Sherlock cut in, his tone acidic. “Of course. Are you truly so idiotic that you think recurring mentions of your own demise wouldn’t bother me? That I would be able to fully disregard them? Even after what I… what you heard me say about you? I’m not such a machine, you know. Not about everything. You know exactly how I feel, John.”

John started to sit up from Sherlock’s lap.

“No,” Sherlock said, his voice low. “You’ll hurt yourself…”

“Quiet, you” John said, as he slowly sat to face Sherlock directly. “Look at me.”

Sherlock stared fixedly at the ground. 

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone a bit more forceful.

Sherlock met John’s eyes.

“You are not allowed to be upset right now, all right? You have to be the strong one, Sherlock. You must. Because if things get worse…” John paused. He drew a long breath. “I’m not going to be the strong one. I can laugh about it now, because things are still ok. But if this gets worse, which it probably will, I just… I can’t. Because I sure as hell don’t want to go out this way. Especially with… well, with you saying what you said. And the kissing. Why haven’t we always been kissing?” John laughed sharply. “God, that was wonderful. And I’m not ready to be done with it. With _you_. I’m scared. So you… you are not allowed to be scared, too.”

“John.”

“No. Just… just do this, Sherlock. Ok? Be the strong one. I need you to be the strong one.”

Sherlock nodded once. “You shouldn’t fear death, John. We’re all dying.”

“Yes, but I’m dying today. And that’s terrifying.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment and John lifted his shirt and gingerly inspected his darkened abdomen.

“Do you believe in God, Sherlock?” John said, his voice small. “I don’t imagine you do, do you? Definitely not the type.”

“I believe in science. Reason.”

“So no then?”

“I don’t know.”

“So yes?” John pressed.

“I don’t make a habit of supporting assumptions, John. Taking a stand for or against something that no man on earth can prove is far too great an assumption.”

“But if you had to guess… What would you guess?”

“I never guess.”

“Damn it, Sherlock. What do you think?”

Sherlock looked annoyed, but he considered his answer for a moment before continuing on. “While I see no solid, scientific proof of a greater being, I see no conclusive counter proof either. The chance of our creation being the result of an omniscient man in the sky seems extremely outlandish to me, but some things do seem to suggest otherwise.”

“Like?”

“Like beauty. Everything on this earth serves a scientific purpose, correct? Everything _must_ exist for a concrete reason. But why then is the London night sky so… so…” Sherlock trailed off, the words lost.

“Breathtaking,” John finished for him.

“Exactly. Why do stars light up the dark sky and insist on glittering magnificently in their purpose? Why is there such beauty in the random, haphazard design of the universe?”

John smiled. “That’s fairly poetic, you know. Could’ve been a philosopher, you. Mycroft said that once. I used to think he was wrong. I suppose not.”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment. “Yes. Well. My mother used to say that. So Mycroft wasn’t actually correct, was he? My mother, perhaps. But not Mycroft. Never Mycroft.”

John leaned back onto Sherlock, cradling his abdomen in his hands as he did. “Getting a bit harder to breathe,” he said once he was settled. He pressed on his rigid stomach. “And it doesn’t hurt anymore. So. Not good.”

“Not good,” Sherlock repeated, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Let’s talk about something different,” John said, closing his eyes. “Your mother. You’ve never talked about your mother.” John coughed. “Oh, and your father. What was he like?”

“I’ve no idea,” Sherlock said, coolly. “I never knew my father. He died when I was young. I’ve researched him, obviously. He was… dull.” Sherlock spoke confidently, but his eyes were sad. 

“And your mother?”

“She was… cold. Elegant. Very intelligent. She was a harsh woman, but she tried her best. When my father died, I believe a large part of her died as well. He was her humanity. Without him, she wasn’t sure how to function. Mycroft had to do most of my parenting.”

John smiled wistfully. “That’s a nice image. Mycroft, perched on the edge of your childhood bed, reading you a bedtime story. He did that, didn’t he? Every child, even _you_ , likes a bedtime story.”

Sherlock sighed and glanced down at John. “Yes, he did that. From time to time.”

“I like that,” John said. 

“He didn’t read silly children’s books though.”

“Well, of course he didn’t.”

“He read military theory. Poetry. Medical textbooks. Mycroft always valued intelligence.”

“So you have him to thank for yours?”

“Of course not. I was always brighter than Mycroft,” Sherlock said quickly.

“Brilliant, brilliant Sherlock Holmes,” John murmured, his eyes growing a bit blearier. “But you couldn’t see what was right in front of you. So not too brilliant. Missed that deduction, didn’t you? You thought I’d leave the flat after hearing what you said. Never. _Never_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and glanced down at John, but he said nothing.

“You, the great genius Sherlock Holmes, really couldn’t see that I… how I felt about you?”

“I had,” Sherlock said quietly, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion. It is, it seems, quite dangerous to reason from insufficient data. Assumptions. They are terribly dangerous. I regret them now.”

“I suppose I didn’t exactly make it clear though.”

“You did insist that you were straight. Repeatedly.”

“Yes, and you insisted you were married to your work.”

“I was.”

“And now?”

“I suppose I’m cheating on it.”

John laughed and winced, clutching at his stomach.

“All right?” Sherlock asked, worried.

“Fine. And I still maintain that I am straight. I still feel straight.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John squarely on the lips. Quickly. To make a point.

“Yeah,” John said, grinning. “I really still feel rather straight. Perhaps if you, I don’t know, did that…”

Sherlock caught the gist and leaned down again, pressing his lips to John’s for a longer moment this time.

“Better,” John said, before coughing violently. He pulled his hand from his mouth to reveal a spot of bright red blood. “God, that’s disgusting. No more kissing then.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Sherlock said. Something had changed in his expression. He seemed harder now. Like stone. 

“Sherlock,”

“No. John, you are _not_ dying here. I won't allow it. We’re getting out. Right now.” Sherlock shifted out from under John.

“Sherlock,”

“Stay here,” Sherlock said sharply. “Just stay here.”

“What are you going to do?” John asked, struggling to sit up.

“I’m calling his bluff,” Sherlock said, his expression dark. “We’re leaving. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can follow me on Twitter @SkyyTweet if you want to be best buddies.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock walked across the room before John could pull himself to his feet.

“John, you stay down,” Sherlock said, turning to glare at John.

“Sherlock, you’re being irrational,” John said, clearly trying to keep his calm. “Come sit back down. There are… there are guns, Sherlock. He has snipers. Sit down. Come on, now. Come back here.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “No, Moriarty would never kill me. He’d have nothing to do. He would be so bored.” Sherlock reached the door that Moriarty and Moran had disappeared through. He turned back to John and they held eye contact for a moment, somber and significant. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He opened the door. Unlocked. Of course. And stepped through it.

John screamed his name, but Sherlock pulled the door closed behind him. John didn’t need to be involved in this. John had been through enough.

The room before him was dark and dirty. It smelled like sawdust. At one time it could have been a lounge area in the warehouse, but now it was nothing more than an accumulation of dust and yellowed papers. There was nothing here, Sherlock saw. Nothing that could help him. He moved on and tentatively turned the knob of another door on the far wall.

“Finally,” Moriarty said from a chair in the corner as soon as Sherlock entered the second, much smaller room. “I thought you would have figured this out sooner. This took…” Moriarty glanced down at his watch. “Goodness. This took much longer than I expected.”

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Sherlock said, his tone ice cold.

"Fine, fine." Moriarty clasped his hands together. "You're here now."

“What’s your game here, Moriarty? John needs surgery.”

“I don’t care what happens to John.”

“Obviously. But you care about me. Or at least the competition I provide. Without John, you don’t have me.”

“Don’t I?”

“Not at all.”

Moriarty stood from his seat and straightened his tie. He stepped up to face Sherlock. They were inches away from each other. “They way I see it,” he said, looking up at Sherlock. “Without John, I will completely have you. John is a distraction. Nothing more. He weakens you, Sherlock. He makes you human.”

"Not true," Sherlock said.

"Oh yes," Moriarty nodded. "I think it's very true." He took a step toward Sherlock and looked piercingly into his eyes. "There it is," he said, pointing at Sherlock's left eye, his finger dangerously close to it. "A glint of humanity. Fear. You're afraid," Moriarty hissed. "And not at all for yourself. You're afraid for John Watson. That's dreadfully dull, Sherlock. Predictable, even. You are much better than that."

Sherlock took a step away from Moriarty. "What is the point of this? You don't intend to kill me."

"And dear John?"

"You don't intend to kill him either," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Deduced that, have you?" Moriarty said.

Sherlock gave a curt nod. "Yes. I won't bore you with the details of how."

"No need," Moriarty said, a grin forming slowly on his face. "I meant for you to make that deduction." His smile widened further. "Now it will be so much more entertaining for me to watch your reaction when you realize that your deductions were wrong."

Sherlock drew a sharp breath.

"That's right," Moriarty said, reading his reaction.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his voice less confident than it had been.

"Why not? I have no reason not to. I'm just so bored, Sherlock. Don't you feel that? That scream of boredom so powerful that you can find nothing to quiet it?"

"Constantly," Sherlock said.

Moriarty flashed a quick, maniacal grin. "Then you understand."

"Killing John won't fix that boredom, Moriarty," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

"But?"

"But perhaps I can."

Moriarty rocked back on his heels. "Go on."

"Let John go. Promise to leave him alone, and I will stay with you. Willingly. For as long as you wish. Imagine the things we could accomplish together, Moriarty. We would never know boredom again."

Moriarty turned and paced in a circle around the small room. "For as long as I wish?" he asked, turning back to face Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded without a second thought. "Yes."

Moriarty held his hand out.

"You won't hurt John?"

"I will let him go right now. Won't harm a hair on his pretty little head."

Sherlock reached out and shook Moriarty's hand. "I want to see you let him go. And I want to tell him where I've gone."

Moriarty took a long breath. "Hm. See. That wasn't part of the deal. I can't have him running back to save you, can I? No, let's let someone else deliver the news, shall we?"

"You said…"

"Yes, yes. I'm letting him go right now. Moran's already been sent to get him. Calm down. But you're not seeing him again. That, I didn't agree to. And if you try to contact him… ever, I will kill him. Brutally and with pleasure." Moriarty shrugged so dramatically that it was almost comical. "Plus, you have me now. You don't need the pet. Oh, Sherlock, the things I have planned…"

Sherlock ran a hand over his forehead and tried to steady himself as the gravity of the situation started to hit and the room swayed around him.

"Easy there," Moriarty said darkly, leading him to sit in the chair. "I'm here."

In the larger room of the warehouse, John was still shouting Sherlock's name and pounding on the door he'd left through. As soon as he'd disappeared John had gotten to his feet, injuries be damned, and hobbled over to follow him, but the door was locked, so he was left trying helplessly to break through it.

"Sherlock!!" he bellowed again and again, pounding his fists against the door. His body ached and he felt light-headed, but he ignored the pain and tried desperately to break through.

Still, after ten minutes, his legs buckled and he fell to the ground. Despite being unable to stand, he kept slamming his hands into the door until it opened unexpectedly.

John tried to keep from falling through where he'd been leaning when Sebastian Moran came into view.

"John, John," he said, looking down and shaking his head. "Do shut up. Your shouting is bothering my snipers."

"Where is Sherlock?" John growled, trying again to stand and finding that he still couldn't manage it.

"With Moriarty, I imagine," Sebastian's expression was filled with dark glee. "Possibly dead? I'm not sure, honestly, and I don't care a bit."

"If you've hurt him, Moran, I will kill you."

Moran smirked. "In your state, I doubt you can carry out that threat."

John grunted and used the edge of the door to slowly pull himself to his feet. His breathing was heavy and pained as he lifted his head to glare at Moran.

"Where is he?"

"Look, don't have a fit," Moran said, holding both of his hands up. "Your Sherlock is perfectly fine. In fact, he's decided to stay with us for a bit. Great news, eh?"

"He's decided? What? I don't…"

"Yes," Moran cut in. "Sherlock wants to stay with Moriarty. To tell you the truth, I'm not surprised. He is, after all, much more appealing than you."

"What are you…" 

"It seems you've bored him," Moran cut in. "You must've known this would happen eventually. Must've expected it."

John bit his bottom lip and looked at the ground. "I don't believe… There's no way…"

His confusion was silenced with a swift knock to the head from Moran. He dropped heavily to the floor, unconscious. Moran gave a clinical nod, and then reached down to throw John over his shoulder.

"Time to go home," he mumbled as he carried John away.

~~~

John woke to a warm bed and a steady beeping sound. He pried his eyes open, but saw only blinding light, bright and florescent, and quickly shut them again. His head pounded. He felt woozy and heavy and impossibly sleepy.

"John? John?" The voice was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"John, wake up." Another voice. Also quite familiar.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong, and succumbed to his exhaustion.

The next time John opened his eyes he was able to keep them open. Lestrade was sitting in a chair beside his bed. He looked worn, with dark circles heavy under his eyes and a wrinkled shirt that looked like it hadn't been changed in days.

"John," he said, his voice sounding just as weary as his appearance looked.

John started to talk, but found himself coughing uncontrollably instead.

"Here," Lestrade said, holding a glass of water in front of John's mouth and helping him drink from it.

"Thanks," John said, when he'd regained control of his voice.

"Do you know where you are?"

John looked around the room. "Hospital, clearly," he said.

"Do you remember why you're here, mate?" Lestrade asked, his tone much softer.

John looked down at his body. His chest was covered in large white bandages. He felt tight, stitched up. He reached for his forehead and found a smaller bandage there as well. It took him a moment, but he remembered Moriarty's swift kicks. Moran's cuts. His words.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked, frantically. "Is he here? Did you get him too? Where is he?"

Lestrade's eyes were sad. "We were hoping you could help us with that, actually."

"We?"

Lestrade looked toward the door as it opened. Mycroft walked in. He was impeccably dressed as always, but John could see circles under his eyes too.

"John, we need to talk," he said, taking the seat beside Lestrade. "We need to find my brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My New Year's resolution is to update more.
> 
> Follow me on Twitter if you like: @SkyyTweet
> 
> Thanks always for reading. <3


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